


6-Close Shave

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 1, Early Days [6]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-17
Updated: 2001-12-17
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:11:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Qui-Gon snaps his apprentice out of his funk. With a razor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	6-Close Shave

Without seeming to, Qui-Gon studied his padawan’s face—or what he could see of it—as the young man picked at the food provided by the ship’s galley. Four days and their second vessel out from Graffias, less than a day from the Temple, and Obi-Wan’s appetite was still non-existent. His eyes were clearer now, and the bruises beneath them fading as his sleep had calmed, the recurrent visions of the landslide that had buried him and killed his friend Rue Dariat receding with distance and time. But the wound was still fresh and the young man had clearly not stopped grieving her death. His meditations were troubled and shallow, his practice half-hearted.

Even his libido was not what it should be in a young man of twenty. Since Rue’s death, they had made love only once, in a white heat of Obi-Wan’s anger and grief and need. Since then, Qui-Gon’s lover had been content just to be held, initiating nothing, and the older man had acquiesced to his wishes.

Obi-Wan was also still sporting the beard he’d grown in his illness and grief. Long past the scruffy stage and fuller than Qui-Gon’s own, it was a lovely red slightly darker than his padawan’s hair. It added both gravity and age to the 20 years and experience Obi-Wan carried, but given his druthers, Qui-Gon preferred his lover without it. His preferences had little to do with it, however.

“I think it’s time you shaved that off, Padawan,” he said as casually as possible. “We’ll be back at Temple soon.”

“Yes, Master,” his apprentice agreed dutifully and continued to pick at his food, then muttered something under his breath before shoving a forkful into his mouth.

“I beg your pardon?” Qui-Gon asked.

Obi-Wan chewed and swallowed sullenly, without any evidence of enjoyment, before answering, uninformatively, “Nothing, Master.”

It had sounded suspiciously like “ridiculous rule,” but Qui-Gon let it go. This was the first Obi-Wan had ever complained about the imposed grooming regulations for human padawans, but Qui-Gon had felt much the same when he’d been one himself. Other species had their own conventions to indicate status and the particular canon they followed within the order, but the human directives seemed specifically designed to counteract vanity. The braid wasn’t particularly burdensome, with its varying colors of ties indicating grades of junior or senior standing, but the padawan crop was endured with much grumbling and the cauda, required for padawan acolytes of the Vrizican Canon that both Obi-Wan and his master followed, was universally loathed by those who wore it. The insistence on being clean-shaven was an additional mild inconvenience to padawans who found themselves often in the field, requiring they tote extra gear in their kit. Many new knights immediately grew whatever hair they’d previously worn cropped or shaven, though few wore it as long as Qui-Gon, or their beards as neatly trimmed.

They finished their meal, the last the would eat aboard ship, Obi-Wan cleaning up after both of them listlessly. Qui-Gon watched him settle himself and his datapad in the body-cradling lounge chair of the small suite they were sharing on this leg of the journey. _Perfect_ , he thought, then took himself off to the ship’s commissary. He knew as well as anyone that there was no way to hurry the process of grieving along, nor should there be. But he also knew that it is often better to return to the normal routines of life even if one is not quite ready for it. There were also ways to ease that road--or at least point one to it with a good shove.

 

A short time later, Qui-Gon returned to their quarters carrying a small package and went into the fresher. He reemerged a few minutes later, after some rummaging and splashing, carrying a steaming basin of water, several towels draped over his arm, and a few other objects bobbing along behind him buoyed by the Force. All but the towels settled on the table beside Obi-Wan’s chair. The younger man eyed the various jars and implements and looked up at his master with the first curiosity he’d shown in some time.

“What’s all this?”

“What does it look like?” Qui-Gon replied a little mischievously.

“Suspiciously like shaving gear. I said I’d—”

Qui-Gon touched his lips with two fingers, stilling him. “This isn’t an indictment, Obi-Wan. I thought perhaps I’d give you a treat. You’ve never had anyone else give you a shave, have you?”

“Not apart from you standing behind me and teaching me how to do it, and that didn’t really count as there wasn’t much but fuzz at the time.”

“I think you’ll find it rather pleasant. May I?”

The younger man looked dubious for a moment, then put his datapad aside. “All right,” he agreed but without much enthusiasm.

“Off with your tunic, Padawan,” Qui-Gon told him, and draped a towel around his neck after he’d obliged. “Now, lean back and relax. Close your eyes.”

 

Obi-Wan did as he was told—because it was easier to go along than make the effort of protest. He understood his master was trying to jolly him along and had been for the last several days—indeed since Rue had died. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it, but there was nothing inside him with which to react. The world had gone grey and flat since he’d woken in the medbay on Graffias and realized he hadn’t been able to prevent her death. Qui-Gon had only hammered home that point when he’d been on his feet again, making it worse. Now it seemed almost as though he were trying to make up for his harshness. But it was too late. He’d deserved everything his master had given him, and more.

A moment after he’d closed his eyes, he heard water dripping and lapping and felt a heavy, warm, wet cloth that was almost too hot placed over his face, molding itself to his features. The heat and weight felt surprisingly good, opening his sinuses and loosening his facial muscles. He tipped his head back against the chair’s headrest and sighed silently. Quiet music started up somewhere in the background. The cloth was replaced twice more, until his beard was throughly wet, the moisture that trickled down his neck lightly blotted away.

After the last cloth was removed, long fingers began to spread a warm, soothing gel—not his usual choice—over his face and into his beard. Qui-Gon’s touch was light and he was careful to keep the lather out of Obi-Wan’s mouth and nose. The gel had a slightly spicy scent that wasn’t familiar but reminded him of something pleasant he couldn’t recall. Qui-Gon turned his head a little with two fingers and began to scrape the long, shiny blade of a straight razor down his cheek.

Also not his usual gear. Qui-Gon had used this once before on him, to shave his cauda for an undercover mission, and used it himself to trim his own beard. Obi-Wan had never liked the thing. It looked too much like a weapon for his taste. And it seemed crude somehow to use an archaic piece of sharp steel when a good lazor would evaporate the hair in the follicle. Now he’d have to shave again tomorrow, instead of in a couple of days. Which was no doubt the point, he thought. With Qui-Gon, everything was a lesson, even his kindnesses.

Very soon, there was a rhythm to the action: a few short, careful scrapes, then the razor would be swished off the in basin beside him. A few more short scrapes, another swish, a dab at the lather and hair left behind. Repeat. Qui-Gon worked his way quickly but carefully down Obi-Wan’s cheek until it was clean from jawline to sideburn, turned his head the other way and repeated the process, then tilted his head up and scraped very carefully beneath his chin and down his neck. “Hold very still, Padawan. This is not the place for a nick,” Qui-Gon murmured, the keen blade passing over Obi-Wan’s carotid with just a tad more pressure than, well, strictly necessary, he thought. The younger man froze in his chair, fighting the sudden urge to swallow. The moment passed without incident, and shortly, all that remained was a neat mustache connecting to the goatee left on his chin.

“That’s very handsome on you, Obi-Wan,” his master said, wiping the lather away from both his face and the blade and standing back to admire his handiwork. “It’s a shame it can’t stay. Would you prefer to do the rest yourself? These are rather tricky spots, the cleft in your chin, especially.”

“No, go ahead. I’m too sleepy now to do a good job, especially with that thing,” Obi-Wan yawned, closing his eyes and settling back in the chair again. Blast the man if he wasn’t enjoying this, just as Qui-Gon had intended. Despite the brief, tense moment over his artery, he was more relaxed than he’d been in days.

Qui-Gon wet and lathered the remaining hair and gently pulled the skin taut. Obi-Wan helped out by making the appropriate grimaces as the blade glided smoothly over his upper lip in tiny scrapes, then down either side of his mouth. Finally, there was only the cleft in his chin, which Qui-Gon spread and carefully denuded, wiping the remaining lather away first by running the tip of his finger into the cleft and then with another warm, wet cloth. Obi-Wan made a satisfied little purr in his throat and sank farther into the chair, even sleepier than he had been, at least until a warm mouth descended on his own, teasing his lips apart, Qui-Gon’s tongue slipping slyly in to slide over his own.

It didn’t last long, not even long enough for Obi-Wan to reach up and sink his hands into his master’s hair. The towel around his neck was laid back and Qui-Gon kissed him once again, lips and tongue against his freshly shaven throat, then in the hollow of it. Warm breath moving over his bare chest made him shiver, and then that hot mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, nipping, slick tongue making circles around it. The cascade of Qui-Gon’s hair swept along his chest, raising coldflesh. Deft hands unfastened his leggings, moved around the back of his waist and pushed them and his linens down to his knees as he lifted his hips. Qui-Gon slid the towel from around his neck and under his hips. “So we don’t stain the chair,” he smiled.

Obi-Wan reached for the belt at Qui-Gon’s waist and had his hands lifted away. “You don’t have to do anything, Love,” Qui-Gon whispered in a husky voice that sent shivers through him. “Let me. Lie back.” Then that mouth was on him, taking him in and making him hard. He bucked up into it, moaning, falling back on his elbows, head thrown back and eyes closed. A hand closed around his scrotum, squeezing, made him gasp and lie still on the edge of pain, hovering there, getting harder. It felt so good, so good to have Qui-Gon’s hands on him, making him want, firing his nerves, making him feel alive again.

“Shhhhh,” Qui-Gon hushed him, pushing him back into the chair, running his fingertips down through the pale, almost invisible hair on his chest. Calloused palms glided along the insides of his thighs, pushed them apart until his feet were on the floor on either side of the lounge chair. He felt Qui-Gon settle himself in the space between, facing him, long legs over his own, trapping them against the side of the chair, hands still running over his skin, moving lower, over his belly, his thighs, in between them, hypnotic and soothing.

Qui-Gon gave his shaft a few strokes with something slick and warm and spread it lower, down between his legs, over his sac, kneading gently. Then he closed his hand around the base of Obi-Wan’s shaft, leaving the younger man quivering with anticipation. But instead of the warm mouth or calloused hand he expected, something cold scraped against his pubis. He started, but Qui-Gon’s long, muscular legs held him down firmly, twined with his own.

“Hey! What are you--” he yelped, struggling upright.

“I suggest you lie very still, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said cooly, razor glinting in his hand. “This is even less a place for a nick than your neck.”

“Qui-Gon, what the hell are you--”

“Be _still_ , Padawan! I’m reminding you of who and what you are.”

Qui-Gon shoved him down again. Obi-Wan felt disoriented suddenly, as though he had fallen asleep as Qui-Gon’s padawan and awakened the prisoner of a stranger. The razor descended and he froze, staring in shocked disbelief. In a long swipe, half of the hair around the base of his cock was gone. Qui-Gon flicked it off into the basin of steaming water that had somehow found its way to the floor beside them and rinsed the blade.

“I understand your grief for Rue,” Qui-Gon went on. “I understand your sense of responsibility for her death.” Another slow, careful scrape of the steel blade and another swath of wiry ginger hair disappeared. Obi-Wan’s attention shifted back and forth between the actions of the razor and the face of the man who held it, his words secondary to the actions. “Both of those feelings do you credit.” Qui-Gon’s expression was cooly placid, clearly focused on the delicate nature of the work but devoid of emotion. Obi-Wan felt his erection wilting. He couldn’t believe Qui-Gon was doing this--and didn’t really understand why. “But you must learn to master even your strongest emotions: grief, anger, fear . . . lust . . . ” And here he looked up into Obi-Wan’s eyes with a smoldering glance that would have made him hard in an instant any other time; now, however, even Qui-Gon’s firm touch had no effect as he shifted Obi-Wan’s softening cock to reach the rest of his pubic hair with the razor. “. . . under the most trying of conditions.” A few more swipes and his skin was as bare as it had been before puberty. Obi-Wan sighed with relief.

But it wasn’t over. Qui-Gon’s hand closed around his scrotum again, gently rolling his balls and spreading more of the warm gel over the lightly textured skin. Obi-Wan bit back a moan. “Because not doing so can get you killed or at least injured,” his master finished.

“Wait! You can’t--” Obi-Wan began, eyes wide, barely hearing his master’s lecture.

Qui-Gon tugged on his ball sac, pulling the skin taut with his thumb, and fixed his apprentice with what seemed like a bizarrely calm yet obviously challenging gaze, one that said _Think you can stop me?_ Obi-Wan wondered, quite seriously, if Qui-Gon had suddenly lost his mind, and watched with a sort of sick fascination as his master lay the sharpened edge of the razor against the tender skin. “Qui! Don’t! By the Little Gods--stop--” He jerked away reflexively and the last words died in his throat as the edge of the blade bit into his scrotum, drawing a line of fire over the thin, tender skin in the wake of the razor and the touch of air and gel and sweat in the shallow wound. The pain startled a cry out of him and reflexively made him reach for it.

Qui-Gon batted his hand away then reached to cup his cheek in an oddly tender gesture, bringing the scent of the spicy gel wafting along with the movement. But now there was a strong, metallic undertone to it. He lightly ran his thumb over his padawan’s lips as he had any number of times before, and Obi-Wan automatically opened his mouth to it, tongue flicking against the pad of his master’s thumb before he could think. Qui-Gon’s skin tasted of his own blood. “Suck it clean,” his master growled, no trace of tenderness in his voice, pushing the thumb into his mouth. Obi-Wan closed his lips around the digit and sucked, feeling his cock harden again. He closed his eyes, shuddering, a soft whimper caught in his throat.

“Ready to pay attention now?” Qui-Gon asked, pulling his hand away a moment later, the other running the blunt side of the razor up Obi-Wan’s hardening cock. The younger man nodded, lightheaded. A line of sweat trickled down his back, another down his freshly shaven neck, stinging.

“Breathe, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon growled, annoyance clear in his tone. “I don’t want you passing out. And hold still.”

He barely noticed Qui-Gon’s fingers running once more along the cut, or the warm touch of the Force with them. The blade scraped lightly over his scrotum and in moments it was done, hair gone, cut healed. “This will give you something else to focus on while it grows back,” Qui-Gon said, giving his balls a proprietary squeeze, then getting to his feet and releasing his apprentice. “Go clean yourself up, Padawan,” he directed over his shoulder, picking up the basin and sauntering smugly toward the fresher.

Obi-Wan watched him go, head whirling, not sure what to think. He wanted a moment alone to examine Qui-Gon’s handiwork, but not here, where his master might emerge from the fresher any moment and catch him at it. Somehow, that would be unbearable. He couldn’t think when he’d been so humiliated, though he wasn’t sure why he felt so, except that he’d been so helpless and so taken by surprise. It made him feel like a green initiate all over again. After a moment, he stumbled to his feet, grabbed his clothing, and walked with as much dignity as he could muster into the fresher as Qui-Gon was coming out. Even so, he could not meet the man’s gaze. Qui-Gon said nothing, but it seemed to Obi-Wan that he was smiling faintly in his usual infuriating, masterly manner.

In the fresher he rinsed off, watching the remaining shorn bits of hair wash into the drain, got out and toweled off, then ran his fingers overly the newly naked skin of his crotch. In his usual thorough manner, Qui-Gon had missed nothing. The entire area was a smooth as an egg, like an anatomically correct doll. He felt his face flush. This was going to be fun to explain in the changing rooms. He could hear Garen already. _Hey, Kenobi! You’re supposed to trim the other end, bonehead._ Or worse, Bruck Chun, who would no doubt ascertain something too close to the truth and delight in broadcasting it. Somehow, this was nearly as bad as actually being emasculated. It was, he realized, a symbolic emasculation. A symbol of ownership, if not by Qui-Gon himself then by the order, through his master.

He found it alarmingly erotic.

He stroked himself again, wonderingly. The skin was so smooth and amazingly sensitive. Just rinsing away the last of the gel and bits of hair had given him a raging erection. He could almost feel the blunt side of the razor gliding along the underside of his cock again.

And that was also no doubt what his master had intended. Obi-Wan sighed heavily, half annoyed, half grateful. Damn the man. He was right, as usual. It was time to behave like a Jedi again. Rarely did any of them have the luxury of mourning. Duty came first in everything, and he would have to live with the sad greyness inside him until it abated in its own time. In the meanwhile, he would have to continue to function at his usual efficiency. There would be moments when he could indulge his grief; indeed, Qui-Gon had given him as much time as he could, nearly two tens now, but that was all that could be spared. They would be back on Coruscant early tomorrow, and though Obi-Wan expected a little medical leave while he got rid of the rest of his respiratory infection and regained his wind, it would not be long before they were sent off on another mission.

He had known this all along, intellectually, and now it had been brought home to him in a most tangible manner, but also in the safest one possible, for which he was grateful. Nothing he could do now would bring Rue back. The best he could hope for was to learn from this mistake and make sure her death was not entirely pointless. If he learned from it, learned to trust his own instincts, learned to trust himself and act, then perhaps something good might come of this failure and her death.

And to make that so, he would have to get on with his life--all aspects of it--as best he could. “So be it, Master,” he said quietly into the mirror.

 

Obi-Wan emerged from the fresher as naked as he’d gone in, skin glowing from the heat of the shower, still erect. Qui-Gon watched him pad across the room from the lounge chair he had usurped in his padawan’s absence. The young man stopped beside him and crossed his arms, looking down at his master with an expression that was equal parts annoyance and amusement. Lovely as that clean-shaven face was, with its curved brows, piercing eyes, cleft chin, and tiny imperfections, Qui-Gon discovered he was having difficulty keeping his gaze fixed on it with other equally clean-shaven parts so near.

“Very well, Master. You’ve made your point, in your usual unorthodox manner, I might add.”

“Unorthodox?” Qui-Gon echoed innocently.

“I doubt very much that other masters would be shaving their padawans’ genitals to teach them a lesson, would they?” Obi-Wan replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Very few other masters find themselves with a padawan quite like you,” Qui-Gon countered, raising a hand and running it over the younger man’s bare, silken flank, eyes fixed on the flushed, rampant cock and the naked skin around it. He was amazed that there was an area of Obi-Wan’s skin that was paler than anywhere else untouched by the myriad suns they’d seen, but this was. It was all he could not to run his thumb over the nearly translucent triangle of skin between the narrow hips. His padawan leaned and shifted into the touch, making it nearly impossible.

“Of course, it’s just incidental that you happen to find this . . . arousing,” he purred, putting one knee on the edge of the chair, and leaning on the arms of it over his master, brushing his lips with the tip of his tongue, then pushing into his mouth for a fuller taste. Moments later, Qui-Gon found himself straddled by a warm, naked, amorous padawan. Well, at least he’d jolted something to life again, apparently quite successfully. “Care to finish what you started?” Obi-Wan invited, guiding his hand to the smooth skin he found so hard to resist. Qui-Gon stroked it lightly with his fingers, relishing the satin texture and the shudder his touch sent through his young lover. It was good to see that reaction in him again, good to see him letting himself feel anything but grief once more. He traced the thick vein on the underside of that eager cock with one finger, his own filling and rising in response.

“Not here,” he growled, pushing himself up out of the chair and taking his surprised padawan with him.

Though not a luxurious suite by any means, their cabin aboard the small, second-rate liner was larger than most accommodations they were used to in transit, and had a more than adequate bed, even for someone of Qui-Gon’s size. He swept Obi-Wan down on it beside him and let the young man roll him over onto his back and divest of him his clothing in between hot, wet, devouring kisses. When the last of his clothing lay on the floor, Qui-Gon rolled them over again and worked his way down the younger man’s body, leaving mouth- and fingertip-sized bruises in his wake, and Obi-Wan squirming and moaning beneath him. Having arrived at the smooth groin, Qui-Gon rubbed his face and beard against it, over his lover’s bare pubis and cock, letting the precum glistening at the tip leave its scent marking on him. The new consistency was hypnotic and addictive and he spent some minutes just exploring it with lips and tongue, nipping occasionally. Obi-Wan shuddered, clutching at the sheets, and bucked up against him repeatedly, desperate for contact.

Qui-Gon was surprised to find he missed the nap and musky pong of those ginger curls, but the shorn scrotum was another matter. In his hand, the two testes in their heavy sac were like delicate eggs in a silk purse. He spread his lover’s legs and nuzzled against the sac, then sucked one smooth orb into his mouth, cradling it against his tongue. Above him, Obi-Wan let out a loud guttural moan that reverberated through his whole body, arching his back in ecstasy. “Qui!” he gasped. “Oh gods Qui! Oh! Don’t stop!”

Qui-Gon urged him over onto his side and lifted his top knee, spreading the younger man’s legs again while keeping hold of the testicle in his mouth, sucking it like a hard candy. Obi-Wan’s hands scrabbled for purchase in Qui-Gon’s thick mane of hair, holding him down as he licked and sucked first one then the other. As Obi-Wan’s testes drew up tight against the root of his cock, Qui-Gon left them to run his tongue around the bare base of that hot shaft and then up the pulsing vein to the head. The tiny slit was bubbling pre-cum now, and Qui-Gon licked it off greedily and engulfed his padawan’s cock in one go. Obi-Wan shouted something that might have been a curse, his hands fisting tightly in Qui-Gon’s hair, back arched acutely.

“Such a limber lad you are, my apprentice,” Qui-Gon remarked, coming up off his cock with a loud, wet smack. “If anyone could suck himself off, it would be you.”

“Not as much fun by myself,” Obi-Wan gasped. “Don’t stop!”

“Oh ho! I might have known,” Qui-Gon chuckled, giving the tight sac a long lick and making Obi-Wan shudder again.

“A bet with Garen. Please, Qui--don’t stop. I’m so near,” he begged.

“I wondered how you got such a talented mouth,” Qui-Gon replied archly and took him in again, slowly, descending centimeter by centimeter to a background of Obi-Wan’s desperate moans and pleas, sucking and laving the hot shaft, savoring the taste, relaxing his throat until it was filled with that thick heat and his nose was pressed to that soft, newly bare pubis. Feeling his own balls drawn up tight, Qui-Gon closed his eyes and echoed his lover, the sound and vibration enough to bring Obi-Wan to climax with a wail that turned to a long, heartfelt sigh.

He pulled back and swallowed the flood of hot fluid pumped into him, then licked the younger man clean--a task more easily accomplished now. Beneath him, Obi-Wan was a limp, gasping rag. “Practice makes perfect,” his padawan mumbled, eyes fluttering shut as the tension drained from him. Qui-Gon wasn’t sure whether it was a reply to his last remark, or an observation on his present performance, or both. “Oh gods, Qui. Nobody makes me feel the way you do.”

“Not even yourself?” he teased, rolling the younger man onto his stomach. Before Obi-Wan could make any kind of retort, Qui-Gon was opening him, fingers stroking inside him, rekindling the fire. He moaned and shuddered again, rocking up on his knees and elbows, “Now, Qui. I’m ready.”

And he was, already slick inside to Qui-Gon’s fingers and stretching easily to their probing. Qui-Gon pressed his cock to that tight entrance. It flowered open easily as he pushed into its caressing heat. Obi-Wan wriggled back against him until he was balls deep and they were ass-to-groin. “Little Gods, Love,” he gritted against his own immediate arousal, the pulsing of that tight passage almost enough to send him over the edge, “hold still. Wait, wait!”

“Come for me, Qui,” his lover insisted, clenching around him and rocking in a steady, stroking rhythm.

“No—” Qui-Gon groaned. But, unable to control his own reactions for once, he emptied himself in a wash of flame into his lover with his first thrust, shuddering convulsively, clutching Obi-Wan’s hips. Stunned in the aftershocks, he knelt behind the younger man, breathing harshly and quivering for a few moments before pulling Obi-Wan down with him as his knees finally gave and he crumpled back onto the bed.

“You impatient, greedy little pup,” he growled, squeezing the young man in his arms.

Obi-Wan just smiled and kissed him. “You got what you wanted.”

“I did,” Qui-Gon agreed, “though rather quicker than I’d planned. And you?”

“I got what you wanted, too,” he said quietly, the smile gone. Obi-Wan had turned solemn and distant like flicking a switch. Qui-Gon shouldn’t have been taken aback by the sudden shift in mood, but he was. He realized suddenly that he could sense little of his lover’s feelings through their bond, and hadn’t been able to for some time. “You’re a hard man at times, Qui,” Obi-Wan went on without rancor, but without much warmth, either, “and I understand why. It’s just a little more difficult to take in some instances than others.”

The pang in Qui-Gon’s heart was hard to take too, but like Obi-Wan, he bore it. The boy was still lying here in his arms, relaxed and sated, and there was nothing to keep him there if he did not want to be. “Whatever I do as your master I do with your best interests in mind, love. I may not always be right, or successful, but underneath it all--”

“I know you care for me, Qui,” he said quietly, cheek resting against his master’s chest. “I know. I just can’t always be grateful for the way you show it. I can’t right now. Not yet. I will be. But not yet.”

“Gratitude isn’t part of a master’s lot, Padawan. I’ve done without it before. Seeing you live to become a successful knight will be reward enough for me, even if it costs me your love.”

“I can’t be grateful for that yet, either. And right now, I just want you to be my lover, not my master.”

“It’s difficult to separate the two, sometimes, Obi-Wan. I’m not, in fact, sure it’s truly possible, despite what we’ve both said before.”

“Not just for this moment? Can you give me that?” Obi-Wan leaned back in his arms, searching his master’s face. Qui-Gon felt the weight of that gaze like something physical. The younger man’s eyes were grey and cloudy with doubt and pain. Qui-Gon wanted to ease both of those emotions and knew he couldn’t. They had such a long way to go yet, and he was only beginning to realize how much harder this change in their relationship made their road. And yet, he could not deny the pleasure of having this warm, young body in his arms, or deny what he wanted to give to its owner. He brushed his lips across Obi-Wan’s, then kissed his eyes closed, hiding the emotions in them.

“For this moment, my love,” Qui-Gon answered. “And as many more as you and the Force allow.”


End file.
